


on the field (i remember, you were incredible)

by trustingno1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Rugby, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1327387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mate, is your shirt tight enough?" John asks, leaning against the railing.</p><p>Sherlock doesn't look up from the textbook in his lap. "Fascinating that you noticed."</p><p>(Rugby teen!lock).</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the field (i remember, you were incredible)

**Author's Note:**

> I ... have no idea what this. My only excuse is that it's rugby league season and football is _everywhere_ again.
> 
> There is one line of dialogue that has homophobic undertones; it's not the focus of the fic.

 

 

 

"Christ," Greg says, catching the ball and pulling up short, "I didn't think he even knew where the pitch _was_."  
  
John follows his gaze; Sherlock's perched on one of the spectators' benches, studiously ignoring all of them - despite the fact that training's completely ground to a halt in front of him.  
  
"Oh, come on," Phillip complains (and he'd hated Sherlock long before he took home the Chemistry subject prize last year). "Why's he even _here_?"  
  
Seb snickers, from behind Greg. "Why do you think?" he asks, gaze flicking deliberately between Sherlock and John.  
  
John moves towards him. "You got something to say?" he asks, pleasantly, and Seb looks _delighted_.  
  
"You roll over for him?" Seb asks, tone just as friendly, and the silence is sudden and _awful_ , "Or does he-" and John shoves him before he can finish.  
  
Mike steps between them, immediately, with a tiny shake of his head at John, who blows a breath out of pursed lips, before turning away.  
  
Greg sighs. "Take five," he says, and - despite his better judgement - John jogs over to where Sherlock's sitting.  
  
He doesn't acknowledge John's arrival.  
  
"Mate, is your shirt tight enough?" John asks, leaning against the railing. Sherlock's uniform stretches almost _indecently_ over his chest.  
  
Sherlock doesn't look up from the textbook in his lap. "Fascinating that you noticed."  
  
John laughs, unrepentant. He's allowed to look. "What are you doing here?" he asks.  
  
"There's nothing wrong with your knee," Sherlock says, instead of answering, but John's hasn't been fazed by the non-linearity of their conversations for ages.  
  
"Mmnn," Johns says, "I guess the surgery and rehab was all for nothing." He snaps his fingers, mock regretful, and Sherlock finally looks at him.  
  
"There _was_ something wrong with your knee," he agrees, "But it's fine, now."  
  
"Yeah?" John asks, "My knee and I would disagree." He bends and straightens his leg, absently.  
  
Sherlock makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Fear of re-injury," he says. "Not uncommon. But purely psychological."  
  
It's not the first time Sherlock's tried to tell him this, and it won't be the last. So he lets it go. "We're playing tomorrow," he says, instead.  
  
"You play every Saturday," Sherlock replies.  
  
"Yeah, but it's the _semis_ this week," John says.  
  
Sherlock pauses. "Is that important?" he deadpans, and John kicks at his feet, lightly, and Sherlock doesn't pull away.  
  
"Dickhead," he says, affectionately. "I don't know how much field time I'll get," he bends his leg again, "but-"  
  
Sherlock closes his book. "Are you asking me to come?" he asks, a bit too directly, and John hesitates and scratches the back of his neck, awkwardly.  
  
"Well. Yeah," he admits, with a shrug.  
  
"OK," Sherlock says, and stands, abruptly.  
  
"OK?" John repeats.  
  
Sherlock smiles, very slightly. "OK."  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
(They met in the library, months ago --  
  
"You're here on a scholarship," Sherlock murmurs, with a cursory glance up at John, "You're wearing a clearly second-hand uniform and all of your textbooks are pre-owned or borrowed. Your mother's a nurse - obvious by the stitching on your trousers," and John glances down, automatically, "you're trying out for the rugby team," Sherlock turns the page of his notebook and continues writing, voice even and disinterested, "despite the fact that you injured your knee playing. Chemistry's your weakest subject and you bought your lunch today." He glances up, at that. "You won't be making that mistake again."  
  
John hefts the pile of library textbooks in his arms a little higher, grip slipping a bit.  
  
"Yeah, but can I sit here or not?" he repeats, undeterred, and Sherlock considers him for a long moment, before pushing the chair opposite him out with his foot. "Cheers," John says, dumping the books on the table and dropping into the seat.  
  
He studies Sherlock as he returns to his note-taking. "Problem?"  
  
John huffs out a laugh. "That was brilliant," he says, cheerfully, opening his own notebook, and Sherlock pauses, just briefly.  
  
"Really?" he asks, chancing a glance up, and John smiles at him, open and genuine.  
  
"Course," he replies, easily. Then, curious, a little amused, "How'd you know my dad wasn't the nurse?"  
  
The corner of Sherlock's mouth curls up, unexpectedly. "Balance of probabilities," he admits, and John's smile widens, briefly, "It's not an exact science," Sherlock mutters.  
  
John lifts his chin, in mock challenge. "What position?"  
  
Sherlock blinks. "Sorry - what?"  
  
"Rugby. What position do I play?"  
  
Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment, before licking his lips. "Full-back," he says.  
  
John narrows his eyes, thoughtfully, before his face split into another grin. "You don't know any other positions, do you?" he asks, almost rhetorically, and Sherlock tries to glare at him, _witheringly_ , but gives up pretty quickly.  
  
"Never seemed important enough to know," he says, with a shrug.  
  
John cracks open the first of his Chemistry textbooks. "I'll teach you, some time.")  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
Sherlock's talking to Seb when John spots him, and John's not sure if he's more surprised at _that_ or the maroon scarf Sherlock's wearing, in a half-arsed attempt at wearing their colours - until Seb punches Sherlock square in the nose, and John bolts for the first aid kit, and grabs some ice.  
  
That's more like it, honestly.  
  
"Here," he says, shoving a plastic bag of ice at Sherlock, as Greg yanks Seb away from the sideline.  
  
Sherlock presses the ice against his nose, silently.  
  
"Do I want to know?" John asks, eventually.  
  
"I asked him if he knew that Phillip was sleeping with his ex-girlfriend." Sherlock pulls the ice back for a moment, before adding, "And I may have implied that Sally would no doubt be more - satisfied - now." He presses the ice back against his face and winces.  
  
John can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him.  
  
"Christ, you're an idiot," he says, tugging Sherlock closer by his hips. "Here, let me have a look." Sherlock slowly lowers the ice again, blinking at John, and John snatches his hands away and tries to get a good look at Sherlock's nose. "You're too bloody tall," he grumbles.  
  
He turns and hoists himself up onto the railing behind him, spreading his legs for balance. Sherlock slowly steps into the gap between his thighs.  
  
"So why were you riling Seb up, exactly?" John asks, pulling the ice out of Sherlock's hand to study his nose, and Sherlock braces his hands either side of John on the railing.  
  
Sherlock gazes back at him. "I was - proving a point."  
  
"What, that you're an idiot?" John asks, without any heat, holding the ice back up to Sherlock's nose, "I'd say that was a success."  
  
Sherlock's lips twist, almost in indecision, for a moment. "No," he admits. "You," he pauses, "you came running."  
  
"Of course I did," John mutters - then frowns, suddenly. "You were proving that I'd come if you got the _crap beaten out of you?_ " If Sherlock doubted _that_ , then either John's been a bit of a cock to him lately, or it's the single most manipulative thing Sherlock's done --  
  
this month, at least    
  
\-- or some combination of the two.  
  
"No," Sherlock's quick to reassure him, but John's still frowning at him. "John, you came _running_." He drops his hand and his gaze to John's bad knee, and runs his hand up his thigh, bare leg and rugby shorts and John's knee digs into Sherlock's side, helplessly.  
  
"Yeah," is all he can say, staring at Sherlock, "Yeah. I did."  
  
And Sherlock smiles, that fucking _smile_ that looks like John's the best thing that's ever happened to him, and John tosses the melting ice to the side and grabs Sherlock's face and kisses him, hard.  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth to him, immediately, other hand landing on John's leg and rubbing, back and forth.  
  
John pulls back a bit, and Sherlock gazes up at him (and isn't _that_ a new feeling, John marvels).  
  
"Your friends will see," he points out, not unkindly. Maybe a bit stiffly.  
  
"Yeah," John agrees, kissing him again, quickly, "But we're in the semis and I want a good-luck snog."  
  
Sherlock sighs, and John can feel it, on his lips. "Luck is just attributing matters of possible improbability to superstition-"  
  
John kisses him to stop him talking (not the first time he's employed the tactic, and it won't be the last. There's about an eighty per cent chance it'll work, on any given day).  
  
"Shut up, Sherlock," he murmurs, against his mouth --  
  
and, to John's eternal amusement, he actually does.  


 

 


End file.
